


Professionals; civilised

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: They’re no longer young men, either of them; they have their habits, their creature comforts. Neither of them sleeps well alone anymore. It’s not something they talk about.





	1. Defending someone's honour

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of unrelated prompt fills in no particular chronological order, because I got sold _hard_ on this ship and self-control is overrated anyway.

“Say that again. In _English_ , please, so he can understand you.” Viggo shrugs the coat off his shoulders, brusque, careful- it’s an Armani. Avi takes it from him unprompted.

“Waste of time, Viggo,” he says. “Don’t we both have better things to do?”

“No.” One sleeve is rolled back meticulously; not both, when only one hand is needed to teach a lesson. That’s Viggo all over. Never wasteful. The black spider hangs on the back of his wrist, the ink wearing down with age. It says a lot, that spider. It says some poor bastard’s about to bleed. “I rely on you for many things- I wouldn’t want you feeling that you do not belong here. So. He will speak English for you.”

It has been approximately ten minutes since Avi last had to prompt Viggo to _stop giving me orders in Russian, dammit, Viggo, come on_ , but there’s one rule for Viggo and another for the guys on payroll, and that’s his prerogative. It’s not a hill worth dying on.

“Again,” Viggo says, advancing on the guy in front of him. They’re the same height, but still Viggo looms. Power. He wears it like a second skin, and it suits him. It’s a good look. “You will repeat what you just said, in English. And then, if he is feeling generous, I will let you apologise.”

“So I’m just going to call ahead and let them know we’ll be late to the shakedown,” Avi says. “I mean, the meeting.” He leans a shoulder against the nearest wall, fishing for his cell phone. Getting comfortable. Viggo does enjoy the theatrics, and nobody’s going anywhere until there’s blood on the floor and across Viggo’s knuckles. Goddamn Russian mob. Punctuality takes a backseat to tradition.

But he’d be lying if he said it hasn’t grown on him. Avi takes his time about dialling their contact’s number, and catches himself smiling as Viggo gets to work. It’s really not necessary; he doesn’t give a single fuck what the rank and file want to call him. But Viggo gets touchy sometimes. It’s better to just let him have his way.

And besides which. For a mobster he does have nice forearms.


	2. Debts owed

From behind the minibar, Viggo retrieves two glasses. He sets them down in front of him. "It was good, what you did today. My family owes you a debt. _I_ owe you a debt."  
  
"Yeah, don't worry about it," Avi says. "All in a day's work for me. He's never been caught before, and he actually let me do the talking in front of the judge. Helps that the kid's young, too." He settles into his usual place on the other side of the bar, bottles of vodka at his elbow. So much goddamn vodka. It's not that he objects to it on principle, but it wouldn't do Viggo any harm to branch out into a nice whiskey.  
  
Except that, like most things around here, it's all about appearances. Can't drink the wrong liquor. Can't have the boss' son go to juvie for petty theft. Murder, or arson, that'd be different. But Iosef will be Iosef, and Iosef's decided to act out in front of daddy by jacking cars from the nice parts of town. It's just a shame he's not actually any good at it; puberty's going to be rough on all of them if he keeps up like this.  
  
"He will thank you, in person," Viggo says. "And apologise sincerely for the trouble he caused. You had better things to do than rescue my useless son from his usual mistakes."  
  
"Like I said; don't worry about it. He's at that age. If you want to make my life easier, at least teach him how not to get caught."  
  
"If such a thing is possible."  
  
"It's fine, Viggo. He got off with a warning. Get him to keep his head down for a bit, and I'll make the records go away. No harm done."  
  
"For which I owe you a debt," Viggo says again. From a shelf behind the bar, he selects a bottle. Vodka; better stuff than the usual, and the usual is always good. Must be a special occasion. "I'm not sure what I would do without you, my friend."  
  
"You and me both," Avi says. It's a calculated risk, but it pays off; Viggo indulges him with a laugh. And it's not like he can deny it. There's no one else on Tarasov payroll who can do what Avi can. He likes to make sure it's remembered.  
  
Still, it's a surprise to watch Viggo fill a glass, sliding it across the bar to him before filling the second. That's a break from routine. The boss doesn't pour drinks for just anyone, and Avi takes it as the gesture it is. He's actually touched. It's a strange feeling.  
  
"Спасибо," Viggo says, lifting his own glass. Avi raises his own.  
  
"Yeah, okay, I know that one," he says dryly. "You're welcome. Tell your kid he's grounded, and I don't want to have to defend him again before he's sixteen." He's not serious; they both know it. Whatever Iosef's next fuckup is, Avi will show up to drag his ass out of trouble, because Viggo needs him to. That's the way things are. That's life.  
  
He lets Viggo pour him a second round and doesn't admit that, as far as he's concerned, the debt is already settled.


	3. Sleep-deprived mistakes

If there’s one thing Avi misses about his pre-mob days, it’s the sleep. The full eight hours, uninterrupted; the collapse after a case well-won, or a settlement reached (in his favour, always). It’s not something he ever appreciated enough when he had it.

No one really sleeps among the bratva. There’s always another midnight emergency.

Someone’s raided a heroine lab, Tarasov property and Tarasov employees, and they did it late at night because why the fuck not. Why conduct your raids in broad daylight during standard working hours; why not pick a time in the middle of an already stress-filled week (a blackmail attempt gone bad; a territory dispute with the Camorra; goddamn Iosef’s acting out again) and Avi would kill for the days of high-profile caseloads and eighty hour weeks if it meant he could crash every now and then. The mob just never fucking _sleeps_.

“I’m telling you, Viggo, it’s the new precinct captain,” he says as the phone rings in his ear. Nobody picks up because it’s gone one in the morning on a Wednesday, and people have lives, however much he bribes them. “The one who’s been shaking things up. Just let me have a word with the DA, we’ll get this smoothed over by morning.”

“It’s not the cops,” Viggo says. “They know the rules, and we know where their families are.” He snaps something in Russian; the word _Camorra_ is clear enough that Avi doesn’t argue. The phone goes to voice mail.

He drops into the sofa opposite Viggo and doesn’t leave a message. Tries to focus, instead; all he can come up with is that it’s weird seeing Viggo wearing white. No jacket or tie, his collar unbuttoned. How many people get to see him like this?

“You think the Camorra would go for a heroine lab, though?” Avi rubs his brow. “Not really their style. A raid like this says ‘overconfident cops’ to me.”

“Cops don’t want to come home to dead sons and daughters,” Viggo says. He reaches for the vodka on the coffee table between them. There are two glasses. There are always two glasses. Viggo makes sure of it.

“They might if someone got them fired up,” Avi says for the sake of it. “My money’s on the new guy.”

“And mine is on Camorra. They are sending a message.”

“And they couldn’t send it in the morning, huh. Figures.” Avi takes the glass Viggo hands him. They toast each other; silent, the two of them haggard in the early hours. It’s cold out in the living room. Avi regrets not looking harder for a jacket while he was scrambling to dress. He takes in the mess of Viggo’s uncombed hair, his rumpled collar and half-buttoned white shirt, and regrets not still being in bed.

“Go back to sleep, Viggo,” he says, slumping back into the couch. He’ll try the DA again in a minute or two, and then get to work on damage control. Get the lab relocated, their chemists rushed out on bail, sort out some kind of warning message. “I have this. You need to be sharp in the morning; someone’s got to talk some sense into the kid. Hook him up with some black clothes, make him go through a goth phase or something, I don’t know. I’m running out of ideas.”

Under the coffee table, one of Viggo’s shoes leans on his. “No, I will stay,” he says. “Kirill will return soon; if he says it was Camorra, we need to plan a retaliation. If it was cops…”

“Then we admit that I was right, and you go back to bed,” Avi says lightly. He sips his vodka. Feels the weight of Viggo’s heel pressing against his own, and knows that they’ll both be staying up. They’re no longer young men, either of them; they have their habits, their creature comforts. Neither of them sleeps well alone anymore. It’s not something they talk about.

A door nearby opens. Avi doesn’t bother to pretend he’s not dozing. “Cops, I’m guessing?” he says as Kirill’s footsteps approach.

“Camorra,” Viggo says, and then says something nasty-sounding in Russian. Avi opens his eyes to catch the bemused expression on Kirill’s face.

“Neither,” he says. “Just junkies off the street. They got lucky, the guard went for a walk. It’s handled. Not much damage. Not important.”

Viggo shakes his head, laughing. He drains the rest of his vodka, tilting his head back to chuckle at the ceiling. In this kind of mood, it’s best just to leave him to it. Avi drags himself to his feet and goes to walk Kirill out. Now there’s another man who doesn’t seem to sleep. Mobsters are a totally different breed of humanity. Crazy stuff.

“Thanks for sorting that out,” he says. In the background, Viggo is still laughing. “I try to keep it to a maximum of three disasters a week, and we’re already at our limit.”

“Of course.” Kirill is never chatty. Not much of a man for any emotions at all, honestly. The only sure way to get a response from him is to assign him to babysit Iosef for a weekend. That’s always good for a laugh.

But he’s old blood; been with the Tarasovs for decades, and he has that traditionalist respect for authority that some of the younger guns lack these days. He sees everything, and doesn’t say shit. There’s no need to come up with some paper-thin excuse for why Avi’s in Viggo’s living room, hazy with interrupted sleep, underdressed for the cold at one in the morning. Kirill’s made some kind of peace with it, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Avi appreciates that kind of attitude.

“Not worth making a reservation if it’s just junkies,” he says. “Leave them in a couple of alleyways. It might send a message to their buddies.”

“It’s done.”

“Great.”

Kirill hesitates as they reach the front door. “You are meeting with others tonight?”

“Uh, no,” Avi says. “Not if I can help it. Why? Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” Kirill says. “But maybe tell Viggo he is wearing your shirt. Just a suggestion.” He slips out the door, clearly done with the conversation, such as it was. Avi closes it behind him.

He stands in the hallway for a bit, until he can control the urge to laugh himself senseless.

Then he goes upstairs to get his shirt back.


	4. Only being nice to one person

The shouting is audible from two floors down; Viggo’s on the warpath.

“Do I want to know?” Avi asks the empty office. “Goddamn it.” He closes his emails, though not without a measure of grim relief.

The latest territory negotiations are proving a bitch to handle, what with the Bowery King steadfastly refusing to meet them anywhere near halfway. Fair enough, too. The Tarasovs need to move new merchandise through his lands; he doesn’t need shit in return. It’s an awkward position to be in, and he’s been working on this for weeks.

Avi hates approaching a table with the weaker hand. If nothing else, going to see what Viggo’s problem is will buy him time to think. They need a new angle. Some kind of incentive so that their drug mules stop turning up dead on the subway tracks every couple of days. Blackmail’s probably not an option given who they’re dealing with, but bribery  is always viable. If he can just work out an offer to mediate with.

The corridors are empty of guards and housekeeping staff; they’re either upstairs getting roasted over the coals, or hiding until the storm blows over. The latter’s probably a smart idea. Avi’s never managed it. Like moth to flame, he takes the two flights of stairs to Viggo’s living room. Best case scenario, he can probably calm things down before they get blood on the walls.

Worst case…isn’t too bad, from his perspective. He’s not averse to watching Viggo strip down and beat someone senseless. It’s just another of life’s little pleasures.

He enters to an uproar of furious Russian and four tattooed, muscled bratva thugs with tense expressions. Fucking terrified, most of them. Kirill stands a little away from the rest, hands behind his back, glaring as Viggo shouts inches from his face. That’s unusual. He doesn’t usually fuck up badly enough to end up in the firing line.

“Hey,” Avi says as Viggo pauses to draw breath. “What did I miss?”

Viggo is terse, louder than necessary. “I don’t need you here for this.”

“If you’re sure. It’s just that I could hear you from two floors down, and you know how I hate to miss a party.” Avi lingers in the doorway. “Come on, what’d they do?”

Viggo breathes hard. His jacket is thrown over a nearby couch, but the sleeves aren’t rolled up, the shirt is buttoned. Nobody’s taken a beating yet, it seems. “These idiots,” he snaps. “These _fucking_ idiots were charged with babysitting one of our informants. An easy job, yes? Just keep one man alive for one night, until we can work out if his cover is blown. Simple. Or so I thought.”

“Okay, yeah, I’m with you so far.” Avi crosses to the minibar, setting out a couple of glasses. “What, did he run away?”

“He ran away,” Viggo confirms. “In the middle of the night, under the noses of three guards - _three guards_ \- he gets spooked and runs away. And this morning I receive a call from the maitre’d, who tells me that something of mine has been found on the premises of his restaurant, and would I like to collect it from lost property? I go, of course. And would you like to guess what I found?”

“So we’re down an informant,” Avi says with a sigh. “Please tell me it wasn’t the guy with the Jamaican posse.”

“да. It was.”

“Shit. You know how hard it was to turn him?” Avi pours vodka generously, passing the first glass to Viggo. He holds the second loosely between his fingers, trying to think.

“How the hell did he get past you all?” he asks the silent mobsters. And then turns to Kirill, who’s doing a really stellar job of clenching his granite jaw and staring a hole into the opposite wall. “Seriously, how’d he get past _you_?”

“I was not there,” Kirill says flatly. “But I chose the guards, so the fault is mine. I was not informed that their charge was high priority. My crew is short-staffed.” _With the Bowery King problem_ , he doesn’t say, but Avi winces anyway.

So. This is on him. If he’d sorted the negotiations already, Kirill wouldn’t need to have his best and brightest out playing escort mission with drug shipments, leaving the newer guys to handle stuff they’re not ready for. And he should have been warned that they needed this resource badly; Avi should have passed that information on. He wonders how he missed that this was even happening. An email he didn’t read? Viggo telling him something in passing, that he should have followed up on? He’s been so focused on the main problem. Weeks of one-track thinking, and everything else has just been pushed to the side. Fucking unprofessional of him.

“Yeah, okay,” he says heavily, staring down at his empty glass. He’d really prefer not to be looking at Viggo right now. It’s not going to go well. “I, uh, think this might be my fault. You should have been warned.”

“Yes,” Kirill says flatly. “But it was a simple mission. My people failed.”

“Viggo,” Avi says. “Dammit, I’m sorry, I dropped the ball on this.” He glances over to find Viggo turning the empty glass between his fingers, eyes cold. Wonders if he should be ready to duck behind the bar, just in case Viggo throws it at him. It wouldn’t be undeserved. He’s not sure how to begin fixing this.

Viggo stares him down. It’s a look that lasts too long, the blue eyes sharp and impersonal. Avi doesn’t look away. He wants to, badly. Not out of fear; he’s fucking ashamed of himself. Viggo trusts him to do better. This can’t happen again.

“Yes,” Viggo says abruptly, and Avi gives him a grim nod. “You made a mistake, and now we have lost a resource. That is…unfortunate.” He steps in closer; Avi doesn’t back away. With the bar stools behind him, there’s not really anywhere he can go.

“I’ll work something out,” he says quietly. Viggo raises his eyebrows. He’s close enough for a punch to the gut; close enough for a kiss. One seems more likely than the other at the moment. Avi breathes shallowly.

Viggo matches his volume. “The informant can’t be replaced.”

“I know, Viggo, and I’m sorry. I’ll find something else.”

“You always do,” Viggo says, and then he’s leaning past Avi to set his empty glass on the minibar. He lifts the bottle of vodka at Avi’s elbow. Pours himself another measure, gesturing for Avi to hold out his own glass. Mutely, Avi does. He watches Viggo pour for him and thinks, _okay, what the fuck_.

“I have absolute faith in you,” Viggo says. He lifts his glass in silent toast, and doesn’t step out of Avi’s space. “Yes, you made a mistake. But it is because I asked you to focus on something much larger, and this is what you are doing. If you need my forgiveness, you have it.” Finally, he steps back, leaving Avi to sag slightly against the bar. It’s like having a weight taken off his chest; he can breathe again.

“Thanks,” he says sincerely. “And, uh, sorry.” The latter he aims at Kirill, who jerks his head in acknowledgement.

“Don’t apologise to them,” Viggo says. “They are not worth your time. Three of them are fucking useless idiots, and the fourth is going to spend every night for the next month guarding my son at his nightclubs and brothels and parties. He is in need of a reminder of how to protect a target.”

“Yes, sir,” Kirill says; his expression suggests that he would have preferred a bullet to the kneecaps. Faster recovery time.

“Now get the fuck out,” Viggo tells him. “I don’t care what you do with these three. I don’t want to see them again.” He glares the men down as they leave the room, three of them practically running, one stalking out like an offended cat. In their absence, Avi settles down onto one of the bar stools.

“Thanks for sparing my pride,” he says wryly. “You want to lose your shit at me now, or what?”

“No.” Viggo takes the bar stool at his side. He sets his glass on the bar next to Avi’s; runs a hand through his grey hair. “You do not anger me. Your mistakes are the same ones I would make, in your place. You and I, we are only men. Sometimes we are strong. Other times, weak.”

“Yeah, you know I don’t think like that. It’s defeatist.”

“But it is the truth.” Viggo finishes his vodka. Avi is slower; he toys with the glass, trying to get his head together. It’s almost a shame Viggo didn’t feel a need to bitch him out; might have been refreshing, actually being on the sharp end of his temper for once. Fear might be a good motivator.

But it’s been years since he was last scared of Viggo, and they’ve come too far for it now. Now he’s the one guy Viggo won’t disrespect with his rage.

Eventually, Viggo stands. Clasps Avi’s wrist in one hand, giving it a rough squeeze. “Finish your drink,” he says. “When you are ready, come upstairs. The Bowery King can spare you for one night, yes?”

Well. There’s more than one way to motivate a guy. “Done,” Avi says, draining the rest of his glass; he sees Viggo’s eyes drift to the line of his throat, and swallows purposefully. Sets the glass down.

They take the stairs together.


	5. English, please

The rules have been changing recently. Nothing looks the same as it used to, and Avi’s still not sure where they’ll be when they finally settle. Not sure who’ll come out on top of this little shakeup for two.

He’d like to think he’s a strong contender.

Viggo’s hand sits heavy on the back of Avi’s head. He’s not pulling hair just yet; that’ll change soon, but he likes to start things off with a semblance of self-control. Just a little reminder of who’s in charge around here. As if he really calls the shots with his cock halfway down Avi’s throat.

“Good,” Viggo says. His fingertips dig into Avi’s scalp. They twitch slightly, a minute flinch as Avi nuzzles at the greying pubic hair, for no better reason than to prove that he can. He enjoys being good at things. He enjoys watching all of Viggo’s little tells make an appearance the longer it takes. The clenched jaw as Avi pulls back just far enough to suck hard at the tip of him, tongue flicking across his slit, expression playful-

_How do you want it? Like this? The callboys you won’t admit you fucked, did they give it to you like this?_

It’s just Avi these days. He knows; he spends all his time at Viggo’s side, in his shadow, and if Viggo wanted to mess around then Avi would get him someone to play with, like he’s done for years. A man, a woman, an orgy, he doesn’t give a shit. Whatever makes Viggo happy, he’ll get it sorted.

But Viggo’s settled down in recent years. He’s older, he wants to fuck someone he can trust not to blab about it; he wants a partner, an equal. He wants stability. Loyalty. And like everything else he wants, Avi can make it happen, no questions asked. Not in the least because he’s been fantasising about it for more time than he’ll ever admit to.

Viggo mutters something in Russian, and Avi raises his eyebrows. He backs off, letting Viggo’s cock slip free of his mouth, wet with saliva.

“English, Viggo,” he says mildly. “Please.”

“Or what?” Viggo nudges Avi’s shoulder with a knee. He’s flushed, but the blue eyes are lucid, playful. “Do you really think you can stop yourself?”

Avi shrugs. “You want to find out?” He runs a hand over Viggo’s cock, the saliva helping it slide through his fingers. He’s a big fan of Viggo’s cock. Not surprising, really; everything about Viggo works for him, and he’s been resigned to that for years. He’s not sure he has the self-control to get up and leave. But Viggo doesn’t need to know that. “Come on, Viggo. _English_ while I’m blowing you, or we’re done. And that’d be a real shame; I’m just getting warmed up here.” He ducks his head, exhales on the tip of Viggo’s cock, letting it brush his lips.

He can actually _feel_ Viggo shudder. It’s a rush like nothing else in this world.

“Only for you, my friend,” Viggo says. His smile says that he knows he’s conceding defeat, that he’s giving ground for the moment, that he’ll find a way to make Avi pay for it later. “Please, continue. You were doing so well.”

“Trust me, I know,” Avi says. “But if you want to tell me again, I’m all ears. You know I live for your feedback, _Sir_.” He’s going to take his time about it. Anyone can give a rushed blowjob and call it a day; Avi’s always been about delivering quality. He drags his tongue over the tip of Viggo’s cock, teasing with his lips, making promises he’ll deliver on when he’d good and ready, and not before. Viggo laughs; there’s a hoarse edge to it that’s only going to get worse. He squeezes the nape of Avi’s neck.

“I’ve never met a man who could look good while sucking cock,” Viggo says. “But you, you make it work. It’s a rare skill. How do you manage it?”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, Viggo,” Avi says, and sucks him down hard.


	6. Thinking a loved one is dead

Escape was never an option. Fate will prevail; and where fate falls short, John Wick at least can be relied on to make up the difference. Viggo has seen him do it. He sees it now.

The car is a ruin, broken glass and bullet holes, the blood of the driver staining the headrest. That’s not so bad; those things can be replaced. Others cannot, and as Viggo clambers from the carcass of his vehicle, staring into the eyes of _the man they send for when the worst monsters step out of line_ , he tries to tally up the cost of his son’s final, most unforgivable error.

The safe, with its blackmail material, its secrets, its leverage; they cannot recover from losing it.

Kirill is dead, if John is here. Most soldiers can be replaced, but Kirill shared a breed with John, both men born with one foot in the underworld. That cannot be trained. He cannot be replaced.

Iosef. One of a kind ( _thank god_ , as Viggo has often said to Avi after the third round of vodka, _if there was another I would burn down the business and retire to a nice little house in Москва, to live out my remaining days in peace and fucking quiet_ ). Losing him will hurt. He has no other heirs. Abram has none. They are neither of them men suited to building dynasties, and he has always been a better boss than a father. Iosef cannot be replaced, but perhaps that’s for the best.

Avi, who was sitting in the back of the car behind Viggo, and who made no sound as the cold black muzzle of John’s gun forced him out into the open. Could be shock, or perhaps he is unconscious; the crash was a serious one, though Avi is fastidious about safety, and Viggo has never known him not to wear a seat belt. He might yet survive this. The windows are tinted. He might still live.

John demands that Viggo pull the contract on his head. It is madness to make him wait for his answer, but still Viggo buys a second to peer into the car. No movement. John’s hands are steady on the gun, but his jaw and shoulders tremble like a blood-crazed wolf on a short leather leash. Iosef is as good as dead. Avi will wait for him at the gates of hell; for whatever reason, he was always more patient than Viggo.

It doesn’t matter. The sooner John leaves, the sooner Viggo can open the door to the back of the car. He won’t be ready, but what man ever is? God does not grant mercy to people like himself and Avi.

Viggo gives up Iosef’s location. He drops the contract. He watches John Wick stalk out into the street, half in this world and half in the next, and wonders how long he will outlive his son. Not long, surely. Not if Avi is waiting below, holding his cigarettes. It would not be right to keep him waiting.

He opens the door.

Avi blinks at him. “Hey,” he says hoarsely. There is dust in his hair, strewn over his clothes. He looks as dazed as Viggo feels. “Thank god, I was wondering if he was going to shoot you.”

“No,” Viggo says blankly. “I have not offended him.”

“Good to know.”

“I thought you might be dead.”

“You and me both,” Avi says. He fumbles with the buckle of his seatbelt; his hands have a violent tremble to them, bad enough that eventually Viggo leans into the car and unclasps it for him. And then, because he is exhausted, because there is no one left alive to stare, he wraps his arms around Avi’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

“I’m okay, Viggo,” he hears Avi mutter. “I’m good, it’s going to be fine. Let’s just head home, yeah? I’ll call the backup crew, get them to send a car. We can work out where to go from there.”

There is only one destination for men like them. Viggo rests his forehead on Avi’s shoulder. He wonders if he will ever have the chance to do so again.

“In a moment,” he says. Avi indulges him.

**Author's Note:**

> To the people who encouraged these: thank you!


End file.
